Chapter 2077 - 851: For Survival? (Part 3)

"Brigade commander, the engineers say the bridge is blown."

He nodded.

"Wade across."

The adjutant was stunned.

"Wade? But—"

"Wade across," Ben Abraham repeated, "Armored vehicles can't get across, but people can. Once you reach the other side, establish a bridgehead."

He turned to look at the soldiers.

So young. Most were in their early twenties, still sporting stubble that hadn't been fully shaved. Some hands trembled, some lips were pale, but none retreated.

"Follow my command—enter the water."

When the first soldier stepped into the river, machine gun fire sounded from the other side.

Bullets hit the water's surface, splashing columns of water. Someone fell and was swept away by the river. Others continued to charge forward, firing towards the opposite bank.

Ben Abraham also entered the water.

The water was cold, reaching up to his thighs. Holding his gun, he advanced step by step. Soldiers beside him fell one by one, each replaced by another stepping forward.

The opposite bank grew closer.

Fifty meters, forty meters, thirty meters—

A bullet hit his helmet.

The massive impact knocked him backward, plunging him into the river. Water flooded into his mouth, nose, and eyes. He struggled to stand up, seeing the adjutant's face beside him—his mouth was moving, but he couldn't hear a word. All he heard was the buzzing in his ears.

He felt his helmet.

There was a dent in the helmet, with a bullet embedded inside, not penetrating through.

He took a deep breath and continued forward.

Twenty meters, ten meters—

The first soldier reached the opposite bank.

Then came the second, third, fourth.

The machine gun stopped firing. The sound of hand grenades exploding emerged from the olive grove. Someone shouted "Charge," another shouted "Kill," others shouted phrases in incomprehensible Arabic.

Ben Abraham crawled ashore, kneeling on the riverbank and gasping for air.

The adjutant ran over.

"Brigade commander! Are you alright?"

He shook his head.

His ears were still buzzing, but hearing returned.

"How many have crossed?"

"At least a company. They're still going."

He stood up, looking at the olive grove.

The sound of gunfire was moving further away.

"Pursue them."

9 AM, Jerusalem, Temple Mount

Joshua Ben-David stood on the same platform as yesterday.

Below were still many people—not three thousand rabbis, but ordinary citizens, tourists, and reporters carrying cameras. From afar came faint artillery sounds, from the north, in the direction of Lebanon.

He raised his hand, and the crowd quieted down.

"Brothers, have you heard?"

He pointed north.

"That's the sound of war."

Someone below began to sob.

"Do you think this is an ordinary war? No. This is God's war. It's the war prophesied in the Book of Daniel. The desecrator of the Holy Land has already arisen from the West—"

He paused.

"But there's another enemy, to the north."

Someone shouted: "Who?"

Joshua looked at them.

"YL."

He raised his hand, pointing further north.

"They're gathering troops at the Golan Heights. They're supporting true ZD in Lebanon. They want to invade from the north, to occupy our land, to slaughter our people."

There was an uproar below.

"But—"

He raised his voice.

"God is with us! The warriors of the Squid have crossed the Litani River! They are driving the enemy out! They—"

Before he finished, someone suddenly charged out from the crowd.

Young, in his twenties, clean-shaven, wearing a plain T-shirt and jeans. He pulled a knife from his pocket and rushed at Joshua.

The security guard's gun fired.

The man fell.

Joshua lowered his head, looking at the young face.

Eyes open, gazing at him. Mouth open, trying to speak, but only blood trickled out.

Joshua squatted down.

"Who sent you?"

The young man looked at him.

Lips moved slightly.

Then he said in Arabic:

"You killed my family."

Joshua stood up.

He watched the young man slowly close his eyes, watched blood gush from his chest, staining the stones of the Temple Mount red.

He turned to face the cameras.

"This is the enemy's conspiracy." His voice was steady, "They want to use terror to stop me from revealing the truth. But I won't stop. God's will won't stop."

10 AM, outskirts of Moscow, in that villa

Volkov stood by the window, watching the heavy snow outside.

In the living room, the boss sat in the wide chair, holding a glass of vodka. The fire in the fireplace was blazing, yet his back kept sweating.

"Boss, the Squid men have advanced into Lebanon."

The boss nodded.

"I know."

"Syrian troops are gathering at the Golan Heights."

The boss nodded again.

"I know."

"What about those Chechens—what should we do with them?"

The boss looked at him.

"Let them wait."

Volkov paused.

"Wait for what?"

The boss stood up, walked to the map.

On the map, Southern Lebanon was covered with Squid flags. On the Golan Heights side, Syrian arrows pointed south. Further south, the West Bank of the Jordan River and Gaza Strip, those long-silent places, began stirring.

"Wait until the Squid men are exhausted," the boss said, "Wait until their tanks run out of fuel, wait until their soldiers run out of bullets, wait until their country starts opposing the war—"

He turned around.

"At that time, let the Chechens push down from the Golan Heights. Let true ZD keep attacking from Lebanon. Let those on the West Bank of the Jordan River—also move."

Volkov's hand shook slightly.

"Boss, that would ignite the entire Middle East—"

"Igniting it is good," the boss interrupted him, "Once ignited, that Mexican will jump in. Once ignited, the United States will get anxious. Once ignited—"